But you are of the North
by LuminaCarina
Summary: Canon Divergence—Ned Stark doesn't visit from the Eyrie. Brandon, Lyanna and Benjen adjust. Stark-centric.


**Disclaimer: I do not own A Song of Ice and Fire, nor the TV show Game of Thrones. They are the property of Martin and whoever else lays claim.**

 **Summary:** Canon Divergence—Ned Stark doesn't visit from the Eyrie. Brandon, Lyanna and Benjen adjust. Stark-centric.

 **AN:** Lyanna and Benjen are twins here because: a/ there's a possibility they were born in the same year, b/ in a medieval society birthing twins is harder than birthing one child and I needed a way to disappear Lyarra Stark, and, c/ twins are awesome and we need more twins.

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Lyanna comes into the world screaming her head off, shrieking so loud that maester Walys passes her off to a servant girl, who takes her out of the birthing room. The lady Stark has another babe to deliver, and a crying infant—a girl besides—is a distraction.

They take her to her father, who accepts her small, bloody form into his embrace with the practiced ease of a father two times over already. She is his third, and her twin brother would be his fourth.

''Lyanna,'' he names her, in honour of her mother Lyarra.

Bran and Ned, five and four years old respectively, scrunch their noses when they see her.

''She's ugly,'' Bran complains, and gets a smack over his ears for his trouble.

Lord Rickard surveys his heir critically. ''She's your sister, Brandon. And she has need of your protection. Yours too, Ned. And—''

The maester bursts through the door. ''A son, my lord! Another boy.''

In the commotion that arises in the wake of her brother's arrival and soon enough her mother's death, Lyanna finds her way back into the servant girl's arms. She scrunches up her nose and snuffles like a new-born puppy.

''Take rest, my lady,'' the girl tells her. ''Sleep.''

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Benjen sits in Ned's lap, and Ned thinks it mighty unfair that Brandon gets to attend his lessons and do as he pleases whilst Ned is stuck looking after the babies.

At least Benjen is quiet.

Whereas Ben just waves his limbs and spins that Myrish toy of his, Lya screams and screams and screams. She howls like a banshee, and nothing Ned has tried to do has helped. So he left her to lie in her crib, crying on, and decided to ignore her until she ceased. Ben is playing and doesn't mind her cries anyway, so it isn't like there's the worry of two babes weeping in tandem.

But she is giving him a headache.

Ned doesn't understand it. She is fed, she is clean, her sheets are soft. There is nothing to cry about. Yet she doesn't stop.

When Ned was a babe, Old Nan told him, he had never cried. It used to make his mother fret—and what did his mother look like? After more than two years he has forgotten the shape of her face and the sound of her voice; sometimes he thinks the reason he doesn't understand Lya is because he doesn't want to understand her. She, and Ben, are the ones who took mother away—how silent Ned was, compared to Bran.

 _Yours is the silence, boy_ , Old Nan said. _Yours is the silence and the whispers and the creaking floorboards. Yours is to quell the noise your siblings make_.

Ned has no idea what that means, but it doesn't sound nice. Creaking floorboards, pah.

Father had intended for Bran to take care of Ben and Lya. Lya always calms when Bran is near, and Ben is forever at peace regardless. Only Bran had protested his post as guard sentinel.

''But I have lessons, father,'' Bran had said, and that was that.

It never even occurred to father to ask whether Ned desired to look over his siblings. Why should he, when Ned knows his duty as a son, and always does as he's told, no questions asked? It's not like Ned will speak up.

It never occurs to anyone that perhaps Ned does speak up, but merely goes unheard. It is hard to be heard, Ned knows, when no one is listening.

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Lyanna is the lady of Winterfell.

Her father lets her do as she pleases, for her face is made in her late mother's likeness. She wears breaches and leathers and rides her horse like a man, and there is an entire garden of winter roses planted as a gift for her ninth nameday. She is beloved by her brothers Brandon and Benjen.

''A race,'' she demands of Domeric Bolton, even as she climbs her mare.

''A race,'' she demands of him after he makes a circle around Winterfell two full seconds before her.

He keeps out-chasing her, this pale-eyed boy. Inexplicably, he is faster than her, quicker somehow, and she hates him for it a little bit. She is the lady of Winterfell, and no Bolton freak should be better than her.

Domeric looks at her. ''Nay, my lady. I think not.''

Brandon puts his hand on her shoulder, but Lyanna shakes him off. Furious, humiliated, she stalks off.

''She's just upset,'' she hears Brandon explain to the Bolton heir before the wind and the distance swallow his words, and Lyanna thinks she might hate them all.

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Barbrey is stunning as she lies beneath him, all supple skin and glistening mouth. Her hair is unbound and it catches on their sweaty skin.

Brandon puts his lips behind her ears and bites down, hard.

''Ah! Bran—hng!''

She scratches his back, clenches her fists and bangs them on the hay-covered ground, and a cloud of dust flies up and irritates his eyes.

''Calm down,'' he tells her. ''Stop kicking like a foal. You'll like this, I promise.''

''Right,'' she pants. ''Right.''

He is almost surprised when he finds her maidenhead intact, for she had acted confident enough when she took his hand and led him to the barn. But she is highborn, and the apple of her mother's eye—it isn't strange that men would be kept away from her with zeal.

''Bran, Bran, Bran,'' she moans, breathy little gasps ghosting his shoulder.

He wants to tell her not to call him that; she is neither Ben nor Lya, and therefore has no right to that childhood name. To her, he is Brandon, be he her lover for the night or an utter stranger.

Barbrey cuddles close to him when it's over.

She smells like dry grass and sweatmeats, and the faintest whiff of piss underneath it. Perfume that has evaporated some hours ago, Brandon supposes. Lya never wears any, so it is hard for him to make a good guess.

''Do you love her?''

Brandon tells her the truth. ''No, I do not.''

He has met the Lady Catelyn but twice, not even a fortnight all in all, and he doesn't know her well enough to care for her beyond the vague sense their betrothal mandates. She is his duty, and a pretty one at that. He doesn't love her, but he doesn't mind her either.

''You do not have to wed her,'' Barbrey tells him. ''She is a fish, cold and slimy. What sort of Lady of Winterfell shall she make? A fish is no mate for a wolf.''

And a mare is?

Barbrey dreams of being Lady Stark one day, Brandon knows, but she likely won't ever set foot in Winterfell, not now, not with her honour sullied. But he isn't cruel, for all that he's a scoundrel, and he shan't be the one to shatter her delusions.

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The Vale is colder than the North.

Perhaps because of the winds, perhaps because of the height, but it is far colder than Winterfell ever was.

As a ward of Lord Arryn, Ned has his duties. He attends lessons with the maesters in the mornings, and trains with the sword in the afternoon. In the evening, he attends to Lord Arryn, helping the man with his letters—as old as he is, Lord Arryn's eyes have weakened, and the small, curved letters some lords favour do him no favours. Then Ned has dinner in the Eyrie's Great Hall, and then he goes to bed. Rinse and repeat.

He thought it would be different here. In the Eyrie, there is no Brandon to outshine him, no twins to cause mischief. There is no father avoiding looking at his mother's eyes set in his face.

Instead, there is Robert Baratheon.

Ned thinks he might hate Robert Baratheon. He is Brandon come back to haunt him: a year older, a year handsomer, and a year louder. Robert stomps his feet when he is angry, heaves deep belly laughs when he's happy, weeps like a babe when he is sad. Once again, Ned does not understand.

What is it about people that has them acting so strangely? Why do they feel so strongly?

Ned has never once in his life felt emotional enough to cry before the eyes of a full Great Hall, not even when his mother, the soft and white-handed Lady Lyarra, died in the birthing bed, bringing the twins to life.

So here, too, Ned slinks from shadow to shadow. Here, too, he is overlooked.

Robert bellows how he will defeat ser Selmy when next they clash in a joust, how his sour-faced brother Stannis hasn't smiled once in his miserable life, how he still treasures the hunting knife Lord Arryn gave him.

It isn't until Lord Steffon and Lady Cassana and their ship whole are swallowed by a storm, close enough for Robert to see it, that Ned feels anything but displeasure for the older man. Because, this time, Robert doesn't get drunk in the Great Hall and starts bellowing. He doesn't get drunk at all.

''I thought she'd be there to cluck her tongue about the way I raise my sons,'' Robert confesses, lost in sorrow. ''I thought she'd never give me a day's reprieve until the day I die. Whenever I went home, she complained about my hair—too long, she said, I look like a wildling. And father—''

Robert smacks an open palm against the wall, and the slap echoes in the room.

''Father said I'd make for a terrible Lord Baratheon.''

Ned never went home after the first time, when he was nine and confused. Not after Benjen looked at him while they were breaking their fast and asked: _Who are you?_

Ned has no experience with disapproving fathers, for Lord Rickard has Brandon as heir, and Ned is but the spare. A spare with his mother's eyes, at that.

''Then you must learn,'' he says. ''If you know nothing now, learn, be taught. Your father's bannermen are yours now. They deserve better than an ignorant fool.''

Robert chortles, though the lines of grief on his forehead remain. ''Ah, Ned, you stick in the mud. I have you for that, don't I?''

And Ned's eyes widen— _he remembers my name? Since when have we been more than strangers?_ —and, for lack of appropriate word, he nods his head.

.

.

Benjen finds her resting in the branches of the Heart Tree.

Father told her a thousand times not to climb there, for it is a place of the gods, and spirits nest among those leaves—but she sits there regardless, black dress clashing with the white bark in a most unsightly way. Lyanna wishes she were a bird, so that she might take wing and leave behind this misfortune that has befallen her, or at least reach the tallest tower and refuse to get down until her desires are granted.

Her twin doesn't try to persuade her to come back down.

He looks up at her, blue eyes luminous. ''We could run away,'' he offers. ''I could be a sellsword, in Essos, and you can—''

''I am to be a cow, not a pirate.''

''You know that's not what father means.''

There is silence, and then Lyanna laughs.

''Robert Baratheon,'' she says, testing out the name. ''Brandon says the man has a dozen bastards in the Vale and the Stormlands already.''

Benjen shakes his head so hard it flies out of the loose pony tail he usually keeps it in. ''That's an exaggeration, Lya, you must know that! Lord Baratheon is much too young to have that many natural children. And besides, even if he did, he would not bring them for you to raise, nor would he keep up with his habits after you are wed. Brandon would murder him.''

That is the truth: Brandon would cheerfully slit the throat of any who dared hurt his siblings, and then piss on their corpse for good measure. But even so Lyanna holds a special place in his heart as his only sister. _She has need of your protection_ , father had told him when Lyanna was born, and Brandon has kept that warning close to his chest in all the years since.

Lyanna smiles when she remembers that.

And then her mood sours again. ''I would be his wife, I'd have no authority to deny him should he bring his bastards to me. And Brandon would get in trouble for killing another Lord Paramount, even if it were a craven like Baratheon. He'd take me, and seek to tame me. Instead of a wolf, a pet bitch would be lady of Storm's End! And I _won't_ —''

''Then we break it!''

Lyanna stills. ''…What?''

Her brother—sweet, kind Benjen, who vomited when he saw father put down an old horse and who wept for days after witnessing his first execution—her brother stares at her with tears in his eyes. _He really_ _is a cry-baby_ , Lyanna thinks, fond beyond measure.

''Then we break the betrothal,'' Benjen says.

Lyanna's mouth forms a perfect round 'o' just for a moment, and then a wicked smirk curls her lips.

.

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Brandon used to haul them on his back all around Winterfell, neighing like a horse at their demand. To help them sleep, he used to tell them grisly tales every night, the kind that not even Old Nan would dare impart on them, in which the hero dies and the world is plunged into darkness, and when the full moon comes up, men don wolf skins and rape pretty maidens. He used to kiss their bloodied knees and scraped up elbows better.

So when Lya and Ben sneak into his bed like cubs wanting to cuddle, he wraps his arms and legs around them and breathes in deep, silent as a grave. Benjen smells like soap and the brimstone from the godswood pools. Lyanna reeks of tree sap and mud. They are both damp with sweat.

It feels like there is a storm waiting on them outside, winds howling louder than any wolf ever could, and the snows seek to bury them. When Lya starts weeping, Benjen quickly follows after her; besides crying when he's upset, he also cries when others start tearing up.

His sister's tears dry up when the moon starts setting. Her voice is hoarse when she speaks.

''I'll not wed him. We'll break the betrothal.''

Benjen pulls himself even closer, burying his nose in the crook of Brandon's neck, mirroring Lyanna.

Brandon smells sweat and soap and sulphur and the pungent sap of the Heart Tree. Every inch of his skin is covered with ten-year-old Ben and Lya. In that moment, he thinks he might hate the entire world.

''Alright,'' he says, and listens to the sound of his heart breaking.

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''Your brother writes but good things of the man, Lyanna.'' Lord Rickard keeps his gaze on the papers before him, one hand digging through the mess to find a quill. ''Whatever your grievance with him may be, I'm certain with time you shall see that he is not the beast you make him out to be.''

''Ned has not seen me for more than six years, father. However should he know what kind of man would make me a good husband?''

Though her father's eyes remain fixed on the lines of ink he has so far written, Lyanna can tell that he isn't reading. He is merely avoiding looking at her. Though it hurts her, it has been his normal mode of conduct ever since she mispronounced her own name as a toddler girl, insisting that she was called Lyarra. At least, that's how Brandon tells it; Lyanna has no memory of such an event, and indeed she cannot recall her father ever treating her differently than he does nowadays, throwing gifts at her to avoid touching her.

''Father, I beg you. They say Lord Baratheon has sired bastards by the dozen. That only Lord Arryn can keep him in line, and even then only most of the time. Is such a man truly someone you would hand me off to?''

''Lyanna,'' he starts. Goes silent.

''Father, _please_. I can't—''

''Lyanna, listen, listen. Listen to me. Your brother….''

She waits for him to continue, but her father doesn't seem to have the strength to go on.

Lyanna grits her teeth and stands up.

''Eddard hasn't been in Winterfell in six years,'' she says. ''He knows nothing of me, nothing of us. He is more Arryn than Stark. If you truly trust his word over mine, so be it. I'll not come treating with you a second time.''

And then she stalks out of the solar, making sure to slam the doors shut behind her.

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Perhaps, if her brother had ever come back from the Vale, come back to play court with her the way Brandon and Benjen did, or to flaunt father's authority by teaching her swordplay with sticks… Perhaps, if Ned had done any of that and earned her love, Lyanna might've forgiven this betrayal.

Benjen is mute as he stands his ground, even as she presses forward, their sticks bending almost to the breaking point—

 _Snap!_

''Argh!''

Lyanna throws the piece of wood at the ground. '' _I must remain firm, sister_ ,'' she mocks the letter the Arryn's raven had struggled to bring, '' _for Robert is, for all his faults, an honourable man, and the position of Lady of Storm's End an enviable one_ —argh! He just—he just makes me so angry!''

Sadly, she slumps her shoulders. ''He just… doesn't understand.''

''I don't know why I'm fighting this anymore. It's been years. Years, and all I've succeeded in is… merely… irritating father and Lord Arryn. No one cares about this… about me.''

Benjen wraps her up in his embrace. He is taller than her now, by a full head. There was a time when he couldn't even reach her chin.

''I care about you, sister,'' he tells her. ''Brandon cares. We'll break this, worry not. Even if we must flee to the Free Cities—''

Lyanna laughs.

''After all this time,'' she says, leaning her head on his collarbone, ''you are still aiming to make a pirate of me.''

Benjen's mouth curls up into a smile. ''Always.''

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''Lord Whent's tourney,'' Brandon announces. ''At Harrenhall.''

His hands are clasped behind his back, and the pose he strikes is a regal one. He stares at his siblings down his nose, imitating the disdain Lord Manderly had expressed when he came to visit the year before, only to come across Brandon's monthly night of carousing with the guardsmen.

Benjen and Lyanna, nearly a man and woman grown, are twirling about the godswood with their arms outstretched, spinning like that wondrous Essosi toy Ben used to have as a child.

''At this tourney,'' Brandon continues, ''many lords shall be attending. Among them the illustrious Lord Baratheon.'' The sarcasm in his voice is thick.

Lyanna, breathless with delight and staggering about like a new-born dolt, cuts in. ''And where better to set him up as an unacceptable husband than at a place full of ambitious maidens out to become the Lady of Storm's End?''

''Indeed, dear sister, indeed. However, we must plan this out perfectly. I expect that you, Lya, shall find a suitable lady to seduce the oaf. Whereas Ben is to make sure that father doesn't wander off before it's time for him to witness Baratheon's debauchery himself. And I shall make it so the lady and the beast are discovered by an honourable and highborn enough person.''

''Best make it the lady's father or brother,'' Benjen offers. ''They'd press for a wedding passionately enough to bring the Baratheon-Stark betrothal to its seemly end.''

Lyanna tweaks his ear. ''You are being very cruel, Ben. Would you wish for father to walk in on _me_ entertaining a lord the way our lady shall entertain Robert?''

''I'd wish it were both Brandon and I to walk in,'' he tells her. ''Two on one seems like good odds. An easy kill. No witnesses to the murder, either.''

''Fine, then. What if Lord Tully were to walk in on Brandon and Lady Catelyn?''

Brandon smirks. ''That's also easy, sister. We're betrothed already.''

Lyanna gazes up at the clouds for a moment. ''Are you… happy? With the Lady Catelyn? I never asked for you seem both glad and at peace. But then, I feign acceptance of Robert before father, and you…''

Her brother's eyes crinkle and soften. ''I am happy, sweet sister, worry not. The Lady Catelyn is a lovely woman. You'll be great friends when you meet.''

''Hmm, if you say so.''

Benjen looks between them. ''Can we go over the plan again? I have no idea how to keep father occupied. And if we plan on the lady's father to see them, why must I keep him occupied anyway? It seems like overthinking. Besides, father might not come with us at all.''

.

.

Father pays for a new wardrobe for the tourney, for all of them.

Lyanna spins about in winter-coloured silks and velvets, fur lining every article of clothing and every stich expertly tied. Brandon, likewise, preens, smoothing the non-existent wrinkles from his tunic and strutting in his new coat for all the servant girls to see. Benjen is not as delighted, but then again, he's never been much for the material. A sword in hand and a friend to speak with after a good fight are all he has ever needed.

Lord Rickard won't be coming to the South. He intends to send all his children to mingle and make connections with the noble houses, while he himself remains in the North; there must always be a Stark in Winterfell.

''Think you Eddard might be there?''

Benjen looks at his twin and sighs. Lyanna, for all her virtues, is both spiteful and blessed with a good memory: she doesn't intend to forget the letter Ned sent her the year before, refusing to ask Lord Baratheon to break the betrothal.

''He should be,'' Benjen tells her. ''Lord Arryn would be a fool not to allow his wards to come. There shall be many lords present, and better to forge alliances when in good cheer than when the winds of winter start blowing or, gods will, war knocks on our door. Lord Baratheon and Ned should make friends whilst they can.''

Lyanna puffs up her cheeks. ''You're such a bore, baby brother. And I shouldn't like to see him, for he was very cruel when last he sent word to me. And since then, nothing. Not even a scrap of paper found its way North.''

''Might be because you sent no answer.''

''Might be,'' she agrees.

Sometimes, Benjen thinks, it's easy to forget what awaits them out there, in the great white world. It's so very easy to pretend that this is all there is to his life: his brother, his sister, and the godswood of Winterfell they know like the back of their hands. So very easy to forget that out there, danger looms, that he has another brother, one he doesn't even remember beyond the ghost of long fingers clasping his wrists.

 _Winter is coming_ , Benjen thinks, gooseflesh raising along his arms. _Winter is coming, and I have but a brother and a sister to warm me_.

He feels cold in his new fur coat.

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Half-way to Harrenhall, Lyanna stops her horse and leans to the side, vomits.

Brandon picks her up the way he did when they were children and has her ride with him, her skinny body caged in his arms. He presses his nose to her hair and smells roses and stomach acid.

Benjen brings her wine.

''I'll be his wife,'' Lyanna whispers. There is frenzy in her voice and her hands convulse in the fabric of her dress. ''I'll be his wife, only I'll not be me, but her. And I'll never go home again.''

Brandon wants to say:

 _No, you'll never be his wife, you'll never be besieged by storms on all sides, for yours is the snow and the ice and the red leaves of the godswood, not salt and ships and smoke over water. Yours are the frozen roses of the North, and I'll kill a hundred men and die a hundred deaths before I let you be taken._

But he cannot. Not yet.

Instead, he untangles her fingers from the fur of her pretty new dress, and gives her the reins of the horse.

''Ride,'' he tells her. ''Ride, come on, ride!''

And Lyanna, pupils blown wide, rides.

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The first time Ned sees his siblings in almost a decade, they are sitting at one of the smaller tables in the Great Hall.

Though Harrenhall's Great Hall is fit for giants, his siblings are not dwarfed. They sit side by side, the Stark direwolf nowhere to be seen—they need it not, for they are Starks at first glance beyond shadow of doubt—and they make merry. Brandon has a wench leaning over him, and Lyanna, unconcerned by her brother's wandering hands, is clapping as Benjen chugs down ale like a man dying of thirst. They are… a startling sight, shocking in their revelry and lack of Southern manners.

There is a profound sense of loss for a moment, for he isn't with them. And then understanding settles in. Ned doesn't want to be with them, not really, not anymore, and it is this that makes his heart stutter in surprise and the beginnings of grief.

For one brief moment, Ned curses his father for keeping him in the Vale for so long.

Robert is staring at Lyanna as if she were the only woman in the world.

''Ned… is that your sister?''

Ned doesn't take his eyes of Lyanna, whose last letter consisted solely of pleads for mercy, demands for the breaking of her betrothal to Robert. ''Aye, it is she.''

Robert is enraptured. ''She is beautiful. A Northern rose… The rose of Winterfell… Ned, such a woman, she'd make the worst scoundrel start singing hymns to the gods.''

Ned… doesn't see it.

Lyanna is pretty, aye, with her flashing eyes and tumbling hair, but there are lovelier women by far. The Lady Cersei is like the rising sun, and indeed they call her the Light in the West. And Lady Ashara Dayne, Princess Elia's handmaiden, is called the most beautiful woman in the world.

Ned is like to believe it: Ashara's violet eyes have followed him to sleep ever since he saw her two days past, dancing with some Dornish lord. Lady Ashara had danced with him too, and her lips, when she pressed them to his the way Lyanna once did as a child, teasing him, had tasted of heaven. Compared to her, Lyanna is a child playing dress up with her mother's clothes.

But Robert is his dearest friend.

''Aye,'' he says. ''My sister is surely the loveliest woman in the North.''

''And wild, look at her! She bites, that one.''

Ned hopes Robert never learns how much Lyanna despises him, or if he does, that it isn't because Lyanna bit him hard enough to leave permanent marks.

.

.

He is drunk out of his mind.

The drink's effect is beginning to fade, though.

Brandon nurses his broken finger—the left one, the little one, the useless one, the one that cracked in a brawl with Richard Lonmouth—and fights the urge to vomit. It's not the drink that has him heaving, it's the future.

Benjen stares at him as if carven from stone. ''You are a fool, brother.''

''I know that. Don't you think I know that already? I know…''

''Then why do you bait Lya so?''

Lyanna had teased him, _Make sure to look handsome on the morrow for your lady love, brother_. She had flown away from the dinner table in a fury when he parried by telling her to make sure to look pretty for Robert Baratheon.

He's never been good with words when it matters. It's easy to persuade a lady to share his bed, easier still to convince men to follow his lead, but when it comes down to the truly important matters, he is as good as mute.

Brandon thunks his head against the wall, rakes a hand through his hair.

''She has everything,'' he bites out. ''Everything she covets, even her freedom, soon enough. And I shall spend the rest of my life with a pretty, clever Tully wife, who will bear me strong sons and clever daughters and share my bed whenever I desire it—and she shall hate me all along.''

Benjen takes a step back. ''You are to be a good lord, Brandon.''

''But not a good husband. You know me, brother. Better than any other, you and Lya know me, bone and marrow. I revel in the fight, douse the flames it lights within me with drink and women. I've not sired a bastard yet, but we all know it's but a matter of time. And what will the lovely Lady Catelyn think when I bring her a bastard to raise?''

And he will, if he ever sires one. Brandon swore it to himself that he wouldn't ever be akin to his father: all children borne of his seed will have a home in his household, and all will be loved as equals. He never wants to emulate Lord Rickard and ignore his children because it is too painful to see them.

''Is there a reason why this is all bursting forth now?'' Benjen slides down the opposite wall, draws his knees close and rests his elbows upon them. ''You've kept this for how long? I thought you trusted us.''

Brandon flinches in shock. ''I trust you! Gods, Ben, how I trust you—you, and Lya, and none other. You have my soul, Ben, the gods be damned; they can fight you for ownership when my judgment day comes.''

''How long, Bran?''

He closes his eyes; opens them just a crack before closing them again.

''Too long,'' he finally says. ''Too damn long.''

Benjen studies him long enough for Brandon to grow ashamed and look away.

''You are a fool, brother,'' Ben repeats, softer now. ''A fool and a craven. If Lady Catelyn doesn't love you, then she is a fool as well. You'll make for a good match, I should think.''

''No, we won't.''

Brandon's tone is miserable enough for Benjen to snap to attention.

Ben knows that voice. ''Who?''

''Ashara Dayne.''

.

.

''This is Lord Howland Reed, brothers. Some craven squires harassed him in the stables before I chased them away. He'll stay with our party from now on.''

Benjen looks over the man, in particular his spear. ''You are of the Neck, good ser, are you not? I've heard much about Greywater Watch, and I must say my curiosity is piqued.''

Lord Reed stares at him, eerie green eyes seeing all of him and taking it in without hurry.

''Indeed, Lord Stark. And I've heard much of you, too.''

 _What do you see, that you must watch me so?_

Uneasy, Benjen forces a smile. ''I'd hardly think so. I am but the third son, and the youngest besides. Perhaps you've heard of my siblings; Bran is the heir, Ned our envoy to the Vale, and Lya is the dragon keeping us safe from—ah, Lyanna!''

Lya smirks at him. ''You were saying, baby brother? Think not on his nonsense, Lord Reed. Come, help yourself to the spread, we have most of anything. Have some bread and cheese, we have honey as well.''

''He's one to watch out for,'' Brandon murmurs into his cup. ''Little freak.''

 _So Brandon sees it too._

Benjen frowns. ''Curb your tongue, Bran. If I can hear you…''

Lord Howland smiles at them.

''…then so can he.''

Brandon scoffs.

Ben doesn't know the details, but whatever his brother has with Ashara Dayne, it is ruining him. More so because the Lady Ashara had clearly chosen Ned's company over Brandon's.

''What do you think of ser Jamie Lannister?'' he asks, because he can't think of any other that might grab Brandon's attention. ''The youngest Kingsguard to date. An accomplishment, to be sure.''

''He was very dashing in his golden cloak.''

Lyanna giggles at the dark look Brandon tosses her way. Ser Jamie is a Lannister, and try as he might to be as different as possible from their father, Brandon has inherited Lord Rickard's dislike of the golden lions.

Lord Reed's eyes flash. ''Indeed, Lady Lyanna, but his is a white cloak.''

Benjen leans closer to his brother. ''Lya will wish to take Lord Reed to the feast with us. Best make peace with him now, brother, for I doubt you'll get much time to do so later.''

''Bah! Peace.'' Brandon stumbles to his feet, joints stiff from sitting so long. ''Lord Reed! I've not been much of a host, and I hope you'll forgive me. A fair maiden, I'm afraid, has scorned my advances. But you are my father's bannerman, one day to be mine own, and I'll not have you thinking me a boorish brute. I apologise for my manners—there is more to the heir to Winterfell than what you've seen so far.''

A wide smile breaks out on Howland Reed's face. ''Fear not, my lord, for I know that the Lady Ashara has chosen Lord Eddard's suit over yours, and I know not how to hold onto grudges. What has happened between us, I forgive it all.''

Benjen watches his brother chortle, and wonders… Lord Reed's green eyes are hiding a secret, though what it is, Benjen couldn't tell.

.

.

 _This song… This music…_

She pats her cheeks and is surprised to find them wet with tears.

 _Has he truly made me weep?_

Brandon stares at her as if he knows her not.

It is worthless to hold back now. With a gasp, Lyanna bends forward and presses her hands to her heart; it is as if some great wind has shattered her, and she seethes at her own stupidity, her desire to be as strong and unmovable as the Heart Tree. She should've aspired to be like the summer grasses, to bend with the wind but never break.

Now, this stranger with his foreign song… He has felled her.

Everybody is looking at her now, even Ned.

Lyanna curses herself inwardly: she will not be a spectacle, she needs only calm this rushing river within, to make it back into the lake it once was, she must—they'll ruin her, with their whispers and their gossip, and then she shall never be free of Robert the Oaf, not unless he bungles it up even worse than she did.

Benjen, the gods bless him, comes to her rescue.

''I never took you as a common girl, sister,'' he laughs. ''But if a silly song of doomed lovers is enough to draw your tears, then I must've been doing this brotherly thing all wrong—instead of worms, I should've presented you with a harp.''

Lyanna feels a spark of fury kindle in her breast, but she will not lash out at Ben, not after he saved her face. ''Indeed, brother, the last time you've tried singing, all the cats of Winterfell fled in terror. Your music, I fear, is set to bring tears any who hear it.''

''And yours is much better, Lya?''

She looks at Brandon, who has recovered from whatever had overtook him and is angling to minimise the damage she did.

''Of course. I, at least, know music is not my strength, and as such do not practise it. You, however… Tell me, brother dear, what was Lady Poole's reaction to the song you wrote for her, and performed before the eyes of the entire Great Hall? I was not present, but it must've been memorable.''

Brandon squawks, and Benjen bursts into rowdy laughter, complete with his fist banging the table.

This is what she was made for: her brothers' mirth, the drink in her cup, the dagger—a nameday present from Benjen—hidden in her boot. What use has she for sorrowful songs and pasty princes? Who is Rhaegar Targaryen, to make her doubt her place in the world, when she has known it from the day of her birth?

 _I am the Lady of Winterfell_ , she wants to say, _I am as strong as the Heart Tree. You will not cut my branches down, make me into something I am not. Not you, not Robert, not father. Not anyone_.

Lyanna doesn't look at Prince Rhaegar, and she doesn't listen to what the other guests are saying. She still hears them, though:

''A wildcat,'' someone says.

''No lady,'' says another.

Lyanna hates them all, and for a moment—

But then Benjen's cup breaks in his grip, and in the midst of raucous mocking and laughter, the Stark entourage starts breaking all their cups. Lyanna throws hers to shatter on the ground and thinks: _I can be happy like this_.

.

.

In the end, they didn't need to plan an elaborate hoax; Robert Baratheon does it for them.

''What manner of disgrace is this?!'' Brandon rather enjoys the melodrama, especially so when it's his sister's future on the line. ''Lecherous swine—you are betrothed to my sister!''

The lady caught tangled up with the Lord Baratheon, a sweet thing with bouncy hair and even bouncier teats, bursts into tears when Brandon places one hand on the pommel of his sword. Robert Baratheon scrabbles to pull on his breaches.

''Lord Stark—''

''Silence, you craven,'' Brandon roars. ''If you think I'll have my sister wed to a beast like you—get up! Get up, I challenge you to a duel! Let go of me—''

Benjen, ever vigilant to keep Brandon from trouble he won't be able to pull himself out of, restrains him and cautions him to keep his head: this is what they'd been waiting for, no need for Bran to get injured in the process.

Brandon had expected the amusement this brings him. He had expected the spite and the glee. He hadn't expected the anger. There is a real fury in him, for though he had known this would happen—indeed, this is how it had to have happened—but the thought of someone disrespecting Lya like this enrages him. His sister is the greatest of all the women Brandon had met, beautiful, clever, strong, kind. She is a lone pearl amongst pigswill, and this fool would entertain some random whore without thought to Lyanna's feelings on the matter.

The challenge issued is very real. Brandon would be glad to gut this whoreson, and not just for Lya. The half-bared lady can't be more than four-and-ten.

Benjen sneers at Robert's frantic explanations.

''I'd sooner apologise to the lady, you fiend,'' he says. ''Her father isn't like to be pleased.''

As Robert pales, Benjen turns to the lady. ''You have the look of a Hightower, my lady. If you will it, I will escort you to their tents, and make sure none harass you.''

''I am Alysanne,'' she whispers, blushing to the roots of her hair. She looks ready to faint. ''Alysanne Redwyne, my mother was a Hightower.''

''Then I shall take you to them, Lady Alysanne. Worry not, neither I nor my brother blame you for this ghastly incident. It is clear to all that Lord Baratheon is to blame, for you are too young and innocent to have instigated this. We shall aid your family in making certain your honour remains unblemished.''

Lady Alysanne glances at Robert, who looks upon her with horror. ''Oh, oh, I—yes, that, that would… Please, my lord, my Lord Stark… I should very much like to be returned to my uncle.''

.

.

''What is this I hear, Robert, of you getting highborn girls wine-drunk and then ravishing them? Have you lost your mind?''

Of all the things Ned had prepared for—Robert getting drunk and making a fool of himself, Robert getting into a duel with someone of greater skill, Robert insulting some lord—this was not it. That his friend would do this, when he is set to wed Lyanna, Ned's own sister, the summer after she turns six-and-ten…

Robert's head is bowed and his gaze glazed. ''I didn't think… I just… never think, do I? Father was right… And now Lyanna… Hahhh, Ned, I'm such a fool.''

Ned hasn't been home in almost a decade. He hasn't seen Lyanna in years.

But she is still his blood.

 _The lone wolf dies, but the pack survives._

Brandon told him that, having heard it from their mother in his youth. Brandon is the only one who still remembers what Lyarra Stark had looked like, the only one with memory of her wisdom. It has been so long since Ned held Bran's hands in his own, since he took comfort in his brother's embrace.

''Robert… I can forgive a lot of things. Overlook even more. But this… I need some time apart from you, until I can look you in the eyes again.''

''Ned, please—''

But he cannot listen. He cannot.

Ned sees now what his friendship with Robert is like.

 _I told you Lyanna is the most beautiful woman in the North because I didn't want to tell you how she hates you, or of the countless letters she sent me, for fear of your reaction. I haven't told you of Ashara, of Ashara's skin and lips and teeth, because I feared you would laugh, or take her from me. I haven't told you so many things, because I am of the silence, and I thought that I need your noise to hide in. But Ashara doesn't mind silence. And noise is just noise. I've been like a frightened bannerman, telling you ''yes'' no matter how I felt. And that is wrong. That isn't friendship. Until I can look you in the eyes and tell you ''no,'' our friendship is not right._

Ned steels himself and walks out.

For a second he stares in the direction of the Stark tents, but… he isn't ready for them yet. He turns and walks to Harrenhall instead: Ashara's rooms, he knows, are always open to him.

.

.

Prince Rhaegar crowned Lyanna his queen of love and beauty, and Lyanna broke off her betrothal to Robert Baratheon in the wake of Baratheon's indiscretions. The letter she sent him merely claims that she intends to travel the world with Benjen for a few years.

Benjen snuck away to Essos and joined some sellsword company, Tattered Lords or some such.

Ned eloped to Dorne with Ashara Dayne.

How strange, Lord Rickard thinks, that of all his children, Brandon is the only one to do his duty. Brandon, who is flush with wolfsblood and lives for the sword. Brandon, who Rickard was sure would one day disown himself and run away to Essos—but that's turned out to be Benjen.

''My lord!'' maester Walys knocks once before opening the door. ''My lord—a raven from Riverrun. It is from Lord Tully.''

 _Gods help me_ , Lord Rickard thinks, _if Brandon has broken his betrothal as well_ —

—My Lord Stark, I write to you about a matter concerning my daughter and your son and heir…

.

.


End file.
